Preface to a Note: The Winchester Mad Bombings
by the gothic gunslinger
Summary: Orphaned by a shocking crime, a peculiar eight-year-old boy comes under the care of Quillsh Wammy, creator of the world-renowned Wammy’s Houses. An L origin story inspired by an errant line in the novel prequel "Another Note."
1. Chapter 1

**Preface to a Note: The Winchester Mad Bombings**

by the gothic gunslinger

***

**Synopsis: **Orphaned by a shocking crime, a peculiar eight-year-old boy comes under the care of Quillsh Wammy, creator of the world-renowned Wammy's Houses. As the murder of the boy's parents turns into a serial case, Wammy begins to notice there is something extraordinary about him. In a race against time, Wammy must aid a child mastermind in solving what becomes the detective L's very first case, the Winchester Mad Bombings.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. I just wish and dream.

**Author's Note:** I don't know what I'm doing. I mean I do KNOW, yes, it's quite clear in my head, but I don't know why I'm being compelled to do it. I was content to leave L as much of a mystery as he wanted, despite picking at every scrap of canon I could, to find another hint and satiate my hunger. But there's simply not enough. The Death Note creators did it on purpose. I respected that. I thought I could leave it alone, let the mysteriousness be part of his bizarre appeal to me.

Then I started roleplaying him.

I meant it as a joke. Sleep deprivation told me it would be a hilarious idea to throw him into a long-running, multi-crossover RPG, let everyone marvel at his weirdness and allow hijinks to ensue. But, as hard as it was to get inside his head (he's a smart smart boy, smarter than me, and it's scary), I realized I liked it there. No, loved it there, more than I thought. Loved _him _more than I thought. Not the love you feel for a dashing, sexy hero you've decided to pick up and play with in your spare time, but the deep-seated, aching love for a dear friend who's had misfortune after misfortune in life and there's nothing you can do about it but smile and offer him some cake. I just want to hug him most of the time, which is difficult as he's fictional and, to add insult to injury, a drawing. Can't hug a drawing.

This is kind of my attempt to hug him.

What's frustrating about L is that, although he's one of my favorite characters to play, it's so damn hard to get myself there mentally to do it. If I've watched some Death Note or, as is the current case, read _Another Note:_ _The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases_, it's easy. But let a few days go by and I'm struggling to hold his inflections, beating my head against a wall to get it to think as logically as it can. I'm not a very logical person. It's a stretch.

Speaking of _Another Note_, have you read it? If you haven't, you should. It's fantastic. It also holds what I consider to be the most frustrating half a sentence in the history of literature, which I've been so kind to transcribe below. (No spoilers for the book itself, so don't worry, and go out and get it NOW!) Anyway, the quote:

"… and the story of how the world's greatest inventor, Quillsh Wammy, aka Watari, had first met L, then about eight years old – the case that gave birth to the century's greatest detective, the Winchester Mad Bombings that occurred just after the Third World War."

What.

Thank you, Mello, I hadn't ever really wondered about how L and Watari met until this very moment. I assumed it was something – okay, not _normal_, but without incident. His parents died, Watari took him in, end of story.

Not end of story.

Beginning of story.

Beginning of MY story.

Last night, while trying to sleep, the images starting coming, and the words. And I started to see what happened, maybe not to every L, but my L, the one taking up space in my skull. At first I tried to ignore it, wanting to preserve the mystery, afraid he would lose something vital if I knew too much about him. But the truth is, I play characters better when I know every minute detail, and realized that fighting this newfound insight would just hurt me in the long run. Other characters might not ever get close enough to him to know the truth (although I strongly, irrationally hope they will, to alleviate his suffering a little, and to prevent, at least in my little AU pocket of the universe, the time-locked series of events that lead to his death in the anime), but I'll play him better if I do.

So I'm writing it down. I'm not sure how long it will take me to finish, but I'm on a break from school, where my main focus is writing my original novel, so hopefully I can at least get it going without guilt. I'm doing some poetic rearranging; timelines in Death Note confuse me, especially since everything seems to happen two years later in the anime than the book/manga indicates. So just assume it's sometime in the early-to-mid 90's. Also, the Third World War? What the hell, Mello? I'm ignoring that too. Rewriting history is a little too ambitious for a fanfic endeavor.

Now that I've gone on much longer than an author's note should, and about 3/4 of the people who have clicked this link have already said tl;dr and gone on to find a fic about Matt penetrating Mello with a PS3 controller, I hope you, the person still reading this, wherever you are, enjoy one take on an infinite number of possibilities for L's genesis.

One more thing. For as much rambling as I've just done about writing L better, this story is not from L's point of view.

It's from Watari's.

Carry on.

***

**One.**

The first time Quillsh Wammy saw L Lawliet, the child was sitting, scrunched up with knees to his chest, in a chair that dwarfed him in an interrogation room in the Winchester Police Station, staring off into space. Even just looking in through the observation window, Wammy knew the boy was in shock. His black hair, longer than most boys', stuck up in all directions, and there were dark circles under his equally dark eyes. He looked as though he had just seen something traumatic, which, of course, he had. Leaving him alone in such a bleak grey room, usually reserved for criminals, struck Wammy as cruel.

He was about to comment on it when the officer beside him, a woman with chin-length blond hair named Bitsy Carrigan, said, "Don't even say it, I know. We couldn't get him anywhere near the children's room."

The station had a play room, for children like L, victims of one crime or another. It had bright colours, toys, and a generally deceptive atmosphere that none of them ever bought, but was slightly more comforting than this. It was a room Wammy was familiar with, as most of the children bequeathed to his care were orphaned by something sudden and violent. Although he would become the exception to so many rules, L was no exception to this one.

Earlier that morning, Wammy had received a call from the Winchester police, and by then he had already seen the news, so he had a fair idea it was coming. What had happened was ludicrous and horrific: the boy's house had exploded. The Lawliets had lived in the country outside Winchester proper, so by the time the fire engines rolled up, the impressive estate had been reduced to charred timber and ashes. Even a village idiot could deduce there were no survivors.

Except that there _was_ a survivor. Standing on the back lawn, in a pea coat and scarf to battle the December chill, was the Lawliets' eight-year-old son, greeting the hose-toting firemen with a blank, wide-eyed expression. According to later reports, the men who had spotted him thought at first they were glimpsing a ghost.

All this was explained to Wammy over the phone, along with the obvious details that there was no way the house could have blown up on its own, even with a gas leak. It was too spectacular an explosion, too Hollywood, seen for miles around and expelling a small scale mushroom cloud into the air. The fact that the boy had gotten out without a scratch was beyond miraculous; it was impossible. He had to have been removed before the fact.

"So you're telling me someone planted explosives in the Lawliets' house, had a crisis of conscience, and carried the boy out before detonating the bombs and murdering his parents before his eyes?" Wammy had asked Carrigan. To him, that wasn't much a crisis of conscience; more like a deliberate act of sadism.

Carrigan's tone indicated she suspected the same. "What I'm saying is, we haven't been able to get him to speak a word since we found him at 3 this morning. So none of us have any real idea what happened."

The indication was clear: Wammy was wanted for consultation on this. This happened often with the children who went to his care, and he did the best he could, although sometimes there was just nothing to be done. In this instance, however, the boy had seen _something_. It was all a matter of coaxing it out of him.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Wammy had said into the phone. "And what is the child's name?" The officer had said it several times, but Wammy was certain he misheard. Now in his mid-sixties, he worried his hearing wasn't what it used to be.

"L," Carrigan repeated.

No, it was exactly as he had thought. "And what does L stand for?" he asked, thinking it must be a nickname. Short for Lucas, Louis, Lawrence, Lysander.

"L stands for L," she said. "That's his name."

L Lawliet.

There was a certain poetry to it, Wammy had to admit.

Back to the present, with the boy on the other side of the glass from him, sitting, staring. The Lawliets had no living relatives, and while L had been home schooled, his test scores on record were staggeringly high. Without a doubt, he fell into Wammy's jurisdiction. Although police questioning had gone nowhere, everyone involved thought that if they could give L some time to process all that had happened, get him to a more stable environment, he might open up and be able to assist the police in their investigation. At this point, it was all up to Wammy.

He excused himself from the officer and slipped into the interrogation room. L did not look up when he entered. Wammy sat across from the boy and studied him. He was not an unattractive child, although very pale, which made the dark eye circles even more prominent. There was something vaguely Asian about his features as well, and a quick look at the case file confirmed his mother had been half Japanese. That also accounted for the black hair, still glossy although disheveled. The boy had his mouth buried in the cream-coloured scarf, giving the illusion that he was gagged. Still in the coat, as well, and hugging his knees so tightly his small knuckles were white.

"Hello, L," Wammy said, with as much cheer as he could muster without sounding fake.

L stopped staring off and looked at him immediately. It threw him off-guard. The boy had every right to be shell-shocked, but these eyes were not glazed over in the manner Wammy had been expecting. Also, in the harsh overhead light, it became clear that his eyes weren't totally black, but a very dark grey. L stared at him, unblinking, with a comprehension of the situation Wammy thought he would have had to explain carefully. No words had been exchanged, but Wammy knew the child was very intelligent. No, beyond that, even. It was … unsettling.

Deciding to skip right to the point, he said, "My name is Mr. Wammy. I run an orphanage for gifted children called Wammy's House, here in Winchester. It's a nice place and I think you might like it there."

L said nothing, just continued to stare at him, and although there was no change in his expression, Wammy knew he understood what was being said.

"I know nothing can ever replace your parents, L, and no one would try. But I think the best place for you would be with us, and not a public orphanage." He gave a benevolent smile, although behind it he was thinking of how a child so delicate would get torn to pieces in the regular system. L Lawliet of the sing-songy name would end up as grime on the bottom of some hardened urchin's shoes.

Slowly, L nodded, as if coming to the same conclusion.

"Good, good," Wammy said, still smiling. "And, of course, the police are working hard to catch who did this to your parents. They'll stay in close contact with us, and may want to speak with you again. I can understand why you've not cooperated thus far, but I can promise you, they are on your side. Anything you tell them will help them catch the bad man."

Again, L nodded, and dropped his gaze, ducking his head. Wammy hoped he hadn't spoken too soon about the boy's parents. He'd been an orphan for less than twelve hours, after all. All Wammy could see now was the unruly mop of hair and a bit of his nose. The grip on his knees had tightened and he was shaking slightly.

Wammy was tempted to cross the space between them and place a reassuring hand on the tiny shoulder – the child was clearly suffering – but then L did something that kept him frozen in his seat. The boy, still hanging his head, pulled up his chin slightly, so that his mouth was free of the scarf, and spoke.

"It's not that I've not cooperated, Mr. Wammy," L said, with maturity and elocution that shocked him, especially when delivered in the voice of a prepubescent boy. The accent was unsurprisingly upper class, like Wammy's own, but the inflection was not a child's. Wammy wondered for the first time exactly what the boy had been taught by his home-schooling mother. And, despite L's wounded posture, the body curled up on itself, nearly fetal, shaking with grief and confusion and fear, everything he said sounded perfectly calm. "I'm just still thinking."

Still thinking? About what? Wammy nearly blurted out his reaction, but something stayed him. The moment had turned too bizarre; he was afraid if he demanded an explanation the child would resume his vow of silence.

"That's fine," Wammy said, struggling to mask his surprise. "You may think all you like. In fact, it's encouraged."

This time, L did not even nod. After several seconds of nothing confirmed the boy would not volunteer any more information, Wammy cleared his throat and stood. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, L, I need to speak with Officer Carrigan. Then we'll get you out of here."

He exited the room and found Carrigan looking at him expectantly. He repeated what L had said and she frowned so deeply creases appeared on her forehead. "What's he got to think about? Either he saw something or he didn't. And unless he had a really lucky bout of sleepwalking, he definitely saw something."

Although Wammy agreed, he said, "Well, I don't think it's a good idea to push him; he was already shaking like a leaf. I'll take him to Wammy's House and we'll see what a few days of rest can do for him. In the mean time, you can follow up your other leads."

Carrigan scoffed, and Wammy got the impression that if he had not known her a long time, she would have found his statement offensive. As it was, she gave him a wry smile. "What other leads? The blast burned so hot it disintegrated whole rooms, never mind the devices used to make them. Could take weeks for the bomb specialists to piece everything together. No motives either: parents had no rivalries, no enemies. That kid's the best lead we got." She sniffed with contempt. "And he's holding us up 'cos he's _thinking_."

Wammy held up his hands in surrender; a peacemaking gesture. "I'll see what I can do, all right?"

He returned to the interrogation room. L had stopped trembling, but otherwise hadn't moved. Wammy moved to the boy's side, adjusted his bowler hat, and held out his hand. L looked at it curiously, then reached out and took it. His thin hand, despite all the layers he wore and the indoor temperature, was freezing. Then, with the limberness of a child, he stood up directly on the chair without having to extend his legs, and leapt down with no trouble at all. He looked up at Wammy, and held on tightly.

And that was how Quillsh Wammy came to acquire the century's greatest detective.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed so far! The holidays and school had me ridiculously busy for about the last month, but I hope to get back on track with updating and actually replying to my reviews this time. I do so love getting them.

And now, of course, continuing onward…

* * *

**Two.**

L's entrance into Wammy's House came without much fanfare. It was a Saturday, and, free from classes, the children ran about in the yard as the first flakes of a snowfall began to drift downward, high on the excitement of precipitation and the coming Christmas holiday. If the snow fall picked up, they would soon be herded back inside, given hot chocolate, and allowed to read in the library through the afternoon.

At the high front gate, L froze, and although his expression was unreadable due to the scarf obscuring half his face, his grip on Wammy's hand tightened like a vise. The glimpses of the children through the wrought iron bars and their loud laughter seemed to frighten him.

"It's all right," Wammy said to him, but the boy did not appear to hear.

Down the street, at the Winchester Cathedral, a city landmark and the longest cathedral in Europe, the church bells were ringing. It was a wedding; Wammy had seen a flutter of ivory and lace emerging from a limo as he had driven by, with attendants in blue awaiting her arrival. Perhaps L had seen it too from the back seat, but regardless, it seemed now that the bells had caught his attention, and he listened to them, transfixed.

"Let's go, L," Wammy said, gently but with authority, opening the gate with his free hand.

It took a light tug, but then L moved forward obediently, his small legs working double time to keep up with Wammy's adult strides. He regarded the other children warily, like a gazelle watching lion cubs at play – harmless now, but likely to go for the jugular sometime. This was why Wammy was against homeschooling; the children never integrated properly. Hopefully it was a hurdle L could overcome, although in the back of his mind, he suspected he had already glimpsed signs that would keep L apart from other children forever. He did hope he was wrong.

Thus, L entered Wammy's House, which would become his home for the next five years, at which time, he would take up detective work full time and travel the world solving cases. He would be thirteen years old.

***

Whenever a new child came to Wammy's House, Wammy himself took care to follow the adjustment process closely. This was doubly important in L's case, since the police were so eager to get his testimony. What Wammy saw in those first few days wasn't exactly encouraging, but it was to be expected. Although other children lost their parents in traumatic ways, very few had watched it happen, so L's behaviour could certainly be attributed to that. Still, it was difficult to tell if the way he acted was a direct result of his parents' murder, or if he had carried on as such beforehand.

He still sat – or, more accurately, crouched, Wammy decided, upon watching him do it several times – in that peculiar, vaguely fetal fashion. He still spoke very little. He was a finicky eater and had to be prodded to eat anything besides dessert. The other children appeared to frighten him, and vice versa. More than once Wammy heard L referred to as "that weird boy" and had to reprimand several children. Bullying was one of the worst offenses at Wammy's House, but even he couldn't deny that, unfortunately, the description fit.

There was also some trouble with placing him in a classroom setting. Although some slack had to be given, considering the shock he had just received, no one wanted to keep him away from school for too long. Unfortunately, everything but official test scores had gone up in the inferno, so his exact aptitude level was unknown. Still, the teachers and Wammy agreed that classroom time would serve as both a means of getting his mind off the trauma and an opportunity to form social links. So, after three days' time, L was placed with other students his age in the first form of the orphanage's preparatory school.

It was a bit of a disaster, even from the start. Ms. O'Hannihan, the main teacher for the class, came from a long background of working in parochial school, and maintained that good posture was the first step to proper learning. When she first spied L crouching at his desk, in her words, "like a tiger waiting to pounce," she scolded him immediately and forced him to assume a normal sitting position. It took several minutes of instruction, with the boy shifting his shoulders and his derriere just so, all the while staring at her with owl eyes. ("They look crafty, I don't like it," she told Wammy later, although he suspected himself the child was just petrified of her.)

Once sitting correctly, however, L seemed to lose focus. Ms. O'Hannihan caught him jiggling his leg nervously, or rubbing the toes of his shoes together, or gazing out the window at a bird that had landed on a spindly tree branch. By the end of the lesson, the worksheet he handed in was blank.

"And do you know what he said when I asked him why?" she huffed, standing in Wammy's office shortly after the fact. She crossed her arms with indignation. "He said he knew it already."

She had thrust the opposing paper at Wammy, as if wielding a damning piece of evidence. Sure enough, it had the boy's name scrawled at the top in shaky elementary penmanship, but nothing else. An English exercise, it involved subjects, verbs, and sentence diagrams. Her lesson plan, tweaked from the national curriculum, was over a year ahead of the regular state schools.

"Perhaps he does know it already?" Wammy suggested.

Ms. O'Hannihan scoffed, as if this was impossible, or else didn't matter. "He was being cheeky. I don't tolerate that sort of attitude, Quillsh, not in my classroom. I'm afraid Mr. Lawliet has a rough road ahead of him."

Wammy suppressed a sigh. Ms. O'Hannihan was old-fashioned, and while her strict ethics and drive propelled the children forward, he wasn't sure if her iron fist would benefit L any. He already seemed so fragile.

"Do remember he's just lost his parents," he warned her. "And he's under tremendous pressure with the police counting on his testimony."

"I'm aware of all that," Mrs. O'Hannihan said. "But I know when a child is mocking me, and I don't much appreciate it."

Wammy told her to keep him informed and sent her away. Then he poured himself some brandy, because the woman could grate on his nerves.

***

L continued to clash with Ms. O'Hannihan for the remainder of the week. Finally, on Friday, she kept him after school and forced him to copy lines while the other students played out in the yard. She told him he would have to do this every day unless he began doing the work like everyone else. For the first time, he listened to her, obediently copying down three hundred repetitions of _I will listen to Ms. O'Hannihan and do my assignments_, almost cheerfully. The teacher believed she had won, but Wammy noticed the punishment prevented L from having to mingle with the other children and served as an inconvenience to Ms. O'Hannihan, who kept a hawk's eye on him for an hour instead of grading work or being able to leave.

Perhaps he was mocking her.

As soon as Wammy thought it, he doubted it. He wasn't sure if he should give an eight-year-old that much credit.

In a perfect world, Wammy would have spent time with L one-on-one, to get a better feel for the boy and if he was possibly acting out on purpose. But as it was, he was not only the head of the entire orphanage but the superintendent of several other Wammy's Houses throughout the world. There was much business to be done on a daily basis and he couldn't give one child in particular that much individual attention; there were teachers, attendants, and dorm mothers for that. It was regrettable, but it could not be avoided.

That was, until the night of the same Friday that had seen L detained inside by Ms. O'Hannihan, when something extraordinary happened. It was nearly ten o'clock, well past bed time for the younger children, and Wammy was in his office, nursing a cup of tea and doing something he had never done before: playing a computer game.

Unlike many of his generation, Wammy was not one to be wary of technological advancements. In fact, as an inventor, he relished and even contributed to them, especially in the field of computers. But to him, the machines themselves had been the toys, and any sort of games built for them seemed trivial and impractical. That, until the recent release of a game that had swept the world by storm and become hugely popular. It had been suggested by a friend and Wammy bought it. It was called Myst, and essentially it was one large, complicated puzzle, with smaller puzzles inside them, presented with breakthrough graphics and soothing music. Also, there no enemies to fight like in the garish arcade games the children so often enjoyed, and no hints to help with the puzzles either, so he could take his time and let his mind figure them out on its own. In the few weeks he had owned it, he had solved a few in his spare time and found it rather enjoyable.

That night, he was playing at his desk, letting the tea cool, navigating around the fictional island's point-and-click interface on his Apple computer, when an earsplitting shriek filled the air. At once Wammy was on his feet; he was subconsciously always on the alert for moments like these, fearing for a house full of children. Any one of them could be abducted or maimed at any time, being far too young to defend themselves.

The next second he was out the door and running. The wounded howling was coming from the boys' dorm, where the younger children slept. Once a boy reached thirteen, he was transferred to the upstairs dorms, situated more like suites in a boarding school or university, but those twelve and under slept together in a long hall lined with beds and large windows. It gave the smaller ones a sense of comfort knowing they were not alone. The layout was mirrored at the other end of Wammy's House, for the girls.

By the time Wammy reached the boys' hall, however, it was apparent there had been no break in; no fire or even accidental injury, either. What he saw was a group of children crowded around L Lawliet's bed while the dorm mother, Mrs. Kellog, in a nightgown and looking startled from sleep herself, tried frantically to wake the boy from some sort of horrible nightmare.

It took several shakes, but finally L opened his eyes, looking as huge and deceptively black as ever, and his fists, which had been clutching bunches of blanket, loosened. The silence that fell in the wake of his screaming was eerie and absolute. He sat up, panting, and glanced about in confusion, undoubtedly wondering what had happened to cause so much interest in him.

"Give him some room, boys," said Mrs. Kellog, herding the children away, long ginger hair falling over her shoulder in a plait as she moved them. The sea parted, and suddenly there was a straight line between L and Wammy. Wammy went to his side and the boy looked up at him.

"Why don't we go for a walk, L?" Wammy said, and offered his hand.

The boy took it.

Wammy turned L away from the prying eyes of his dorm mates, nodding to Mrs. Kellog to assure her it was okay and he would return the boy in due time, and led him, in oversize pajamas, bare feet and all, to his office.

"Am I in trouble?" L asked him, upon seeing the room. He knew a place of authority when he saw it.

"Not in the least," Wammy assured him. "I simply thought you might like some time away from the others before returning to bed."

Slowly, L nodded. Wammy shut the door and motioned for the child to take a seat in the leather-backed chair in front of his desk. L scrambled into the seat, and, to his credit, after initially pulling his legs to his chest, slid them forward and let them dangle off the edge in an attempt at correct posture.

"Would you like some tea?" Wammy asked him, so he wouldn't be drinking alone.

L nodded, so Wammy poured him a cup and left the sugar cubes and cream bowl at the edge of the desk in front of the boy. L bypassed the cream and went right for the sugar. He dropped in two, three, four cubes before stirring and held both the spoon and the cup itself at an odd, dainty angle. Given the size of the porcelain and the smallness of his hands, Wammy worried he might spill it.

"Do be careful," he advised, but didn't suggest the boy hold it any differently. He was getting reprimanded for his natural mannerisms enough as it was.

L brought the cup to his lips and drank. Wammy put out a tray of cookies and L reached for them with equal appreciation. He would have to make sure the child brushed his teeth again; good oral hygiene was stressed at the orphanage.

Wammy sat down across from L and stirred his own tea, although it had cooled and he had little interest in drinking it. He watched the boy consume the cookies and tea with his strange grace and searched for a way to bring up the night terrors that wouldn't clam him up completely. Only Wammy and the staff knew this, but the next morning, the police would be returning, hoping to get the information from L that they needed. Wammy himself feared it was too soon, based on how L had been reacting to his surroundings, but demolitions experts had already analyzed the blast site and the police were still at a standstill without the help of a witness. Officer Carrigan had said a surprise visit might catch L before his psyche slammed shut, but considering whatever had him screaming in his sleep, Wammy thought it best to warn him beforehand.

"Have you been doing much thinking?" Wammy asked L now, trying to remain both gentle and frank with the boy. "About the questions the police have asked you?"

L's eyes left the tea cup and he removed it from his lips, balancing it on the saucer with a soft _clink_.

"Yes," he said, with seriousness. "And other things." He glanced away, over Wammy's shoulder to the window with nothing but blackness outside.

"You do know you're safe, don't you?" Wammy asked. "Whoever killed your parents can't get to you here."

"I know." The young gaze dropped again to the tea cup.

The gesture looked so forlorn despite the even tone of his voice. Wammy felt bad for the child. "I thought you should know, L," he said, clearing his throat, "that the police will be returning tomorrow to talk to you."

Now L's head snapped up, and he stared at Wammy with those huge, impossibly black irises. He said nothing, but his hands began to shake so badly the cup rattled against the saucer.

"But I'm not done thinking."

The sense of urgency in his voice was evident; it was the first time Wammy had ever heard him display that much emotion. L pulled the cup off the saucer to silence the tinkling of china, but he did not drink. Wammy could still see ripples in the tea.

"Perhaps," Wammy said, "you could tell me what you're thinking about, and I could help you."

It was a practical statement as well as a compassionate one. Wammy knew it was far more likely L would reveal the truth of whatever haunted him from that night now than tomorrow in front of the officers that scared him so. It would help out the police and spare the child any added trauma.

L said nothing and glanced sideways at the floor. Wammy pushed a little harder. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone."

The boy seemed for a moment like he might speak, but then his delicate grip on the tea cup finally slipped; it caught the edge of the saucer in his other hand on the way down and both went tumbling to the floor. Both shattered in a cascade of amber liquid and tiny shards.

The expression on L's face was devastating. Tea had splashed on his pajamas and now traveled down his face in droplets. He looked horrified and ready to cry.

"It's all right," Wammy said, hoping to calm tears with reassurance before they began. "It wasn't your fault." If anyone's, it was his own. "Come now, let's get this cleaned up."

He stood and went over to L, picking him up out of the chair so he would be safe from the damage the sharp pieces would do to his bare feet. The small body clung to him and Wammy could feel the racing of his heart. The poor child was a mess. Perhaps he should get a counselor in to speak with L once the police business was all said and done.

Wammy moved L to the large chair behind his own desk. Once there, L curled up in his requisite crouch and Wammy didn't dare reprimand him. He went to the adjacent washroom and returned with a damp cloth to wipe the child's face. The pajamas would need to be replaced as well; L looked completely uncomfortable sitting in them even for a few minutes. It was another way he varied from most of the children, who seemed to relish in getting mud and grass stains and jam all over themselves.

"I need to sweep up the shards," Wammy told him, "and then I'll get you a fresh pair of pajamas, all right?"

With an expression a child usually reserved for braving a shot from the doctor, L nodded.

The nearest broom and dustpan were down the hall in a small janitor's closet. Wammy excused himself for a moment and returned with the necessary items, although he paused when he saw what L was doing. In the commotion, Wammy must have knocked his computer's mouse and disrupted the screen saver, for now L was peering at the Myst interface with marked curiosity.

"It's a game," Wammy explained, nodding to the computer. He had just gotten to a new puzzle just before L's scream, and it was on the screen now. From the little Wammy had been able to analyze it, it involved some creative arithmetic to give the correct amount of power to a generator. Hoping it might provide L enough distraction until Wammy could get him a fresh pair of nightclothes, he said, "You may play for a bit, if you like."

L looked at him, and then back at the screen. After a second, he frowned with determination and reached for the mouse.

Wammy had to admire his spirit (and wondered vaguely how he could get L to regard his studies with the same vigor), but Myst was not a game for children. The reasoning skills required were simply beyond that of a still-developing mind. Adults were apparently notorious for losing sleep over the endeavor, and while Wammy was sharper than most and doubted he'd ever reach that extreme, even he found it challenging at times. He fully expected the boy would give the mouse a few clicks and give up in boredom.

Except not even two minutes later, as he was in mid-sweep, he heard a distinctive sound effect coming from the computer. The game was realistic in all facets, so Wammy did not miss that it sounded exactly like a generator surging with power. He paused, ducked behind the desk, and glanced at the computer over the boy's shoulder.

L had solved the puzzle.

Wammy blinked, and immediately looked over the interface again. It was possible the boy had just happened to hit the right combination of buttons at random. Possible, but not very likely, and as an inventor Wammy had learned never to rely on the tiny percentages of the miraculous.

"L," he said, with some careful praise, "how did you do that?"

Without blinking or hesitating, L explained the math involved. It was mental algebra at its finest, and although not the most complex solution – Wammy had already encountered more complicated puzzles in the game – it was way beyond the level of an eight-year-old. Perhaps not a clever teen, but that sort of reasoning in an eight-year-old was…

Well, it was staggering.

Making sure not to show any alarm (children hated when adults were equally disturbed as they often were, and Wammy didn't want L to think he was being discouraged), he said, "You may keep playing. I'll just finish up in here and then get you new pajamas."

He swept up the rest of the broken china and then left the room, catching a maid in the hall and requesting the new set of nightclothes. She delivered them swiftly and then Wammy returned, not to his office, but to the observation room attached to it.

Before Wammy's House was Wammy's House, it had been an orphanage of a different design. Built in 1901, it had been run by the state and housed the unfortunate children orphaned by the many catatrophes of the early 20th century: the Great War, the Spanish influenza, and every major and minor tragedy before and after for four decades. It was a bleak place, feeding and sheltering children without any attempt to nurture them. When the world plunged into a second Great War – the one Quillsh Wammy found himself involved in, at an age much too young and idealistic to understand it – funding for the orphanage had waned and the building closed. It remained that way until the 50's, when Wammy, older, wiser, and richer, thanks to the inventions that helped the Allies win the war, decided to purchase the building. His goal was to renovate it and reopen the orphanage to be run with his vision in mind: Wammy's House, shaping brilliant, promising children into capable adults willing to stop another world war before it began.

Other Wammy's Houses throughout the world – such as America, Australia, and Japan, just to name a few – were built in the original's image, but the founding Wammy's House had, by far, the most architectural quirks, thanks to the modifications Wammy had been forced to make. The building had its fair share of secret doors to restricted areas, which the older children whispered about but never found because of the ingenuity involved with placing them. While the concept might seem spooky, Wammy had learned long ago that a certain amount of secrecy was often necessary to keep things running smoothly. For instance, the particular door he went through that night was located at the back of the coat closet he had installed for himself in the foyer leading to his office. A small electric pad near the ceiling analyzed his thumbprint and a panel slid away, allowing him to enter. This door led to the observation room, which at one time housed a water heater, but now had been fitted with the two way mirror that, on the other side of the wall, hung above his desk. Children, especially those who came to Wammy's House because of their parents' violent end, acted out often, mostly to get attention. There was much worth in observing them when they believed themselves to be unobserved. This particular room had come in handy many times before and Wammy hoped it would again this very night. Although for perhaps an entirely different reason.

He had left L with the game and given him permission to keep playing. He feared breaking the child's concentration, even for fresh laundry, because he wanted to know how far L could go with the game before he became irreparably stuck. From his vantage point through the mirror, Wammy could see the back of his desk chair, a bit of the child's disheveled hair, L's arm and hand moving the mouse, and the computer screen. He checked his watch upon entering the room; it was a quarter past ten at night.

Wammy had intended, originally, to end the experiment after half an hour if L did not falter. But as L came across each puzzle and solved it with a few minutes of pausing and careful clicks of the mouse, Wammy knew he couldn't stop what had begun. The boy wouldn't be able to bear being torn away, and Wammy couldn't bear to tear him. The feeling of awe he felt was similar to the rush he used to feel when he had an unanticipated breakthrough with an invention. There was a beauty to it, even. A grace. Just like his name. L Lawliet. Had his parents known their child would be bestowed such a gift when he was born?

An hour and seventeen minutes later, the credits rolled on the computer screen. L had beaten the game. Wammy estimated he had been about a fourth of the way through when L had taken command of the mouse. Although Wammy had taken the game very slowly, he theorized it had taken himself a good three to four hours of playing just to get that far.

The statistics were astounding.

Wammy exited the observation room and reentered the office, looking at the boy apologetically. "Sorry that took so long. How's the game?"

L looked up at him and cocked his head slightly, considering. "It was fun," he said. "Although a little short."


	3. Chapter 3

**Three.**

**Author's Note:** YES I KNOW IT'S BEEN LIKE A YEAR. /s-sob. I am sorry. It's been a very hectic one! But I do love this story and appreciate everyone who reviewed/favorited/subscribed, so I'm bringing you more… finally.

I've come across a couple clerical errors in my story. One, Bitsy Carrigan should be a detective, not a simple officer. Two, it's come to my attention via the Death Note wiki that Watari was reportedly born in 1933 (or 36, in the anime), putting him at the ripe old age of 11-14 when World War II ended. I totally imagined him at least a decade older than this, in order for the backstory I have for him to work. So we're just going to pretend that's the case. It's fanfic, after all. JUST GO WITH IT. _

Also in the realm of "just go with it," there are some physics references in this chapter that probably aren't terribly accurate if you look too hard. I did the best I could, but I'm awful at science and math, so I wanted to give a disclaimer.

Anywho, that's all. Onward!

The doors to the parlour burst open with violent force, and an angry Detective Carrigan stormed out. Wammy, waiting surreptitiously down the hall, checked his watch. She had been speaking to L for all of six minutes.

He attempted to intercept her, although she shot toward the front door.

"Is everything all right, Detective?" Wammy asked, as benignly as he could muster.

She blew past him with a whoosh of her trenchcoat, still wet from the driving rain that fell outside on that particular day.

"It's what I thought, Quillsh," Carrigan barked at him without stopping. "Useless. Absolutely useless. Get the kid into some counseling. We're done here."

Roger barely had a chance to open the door for her before she was gone. A gust of wind blew the rain into the foyer in her wake, ruining the polish job a maid had just given the floor. Wammy sighed and told Roger to arrange for a clean up, then went to check on L.

The parlour was a modest-sized room near the front of Wammy's House. The walls were wood-paneled, lined with bookshelves along one wall and a handsome archaic world map on another. The only window faced the street. Plush furniture faced the fireplace, in side which flames crackled – an attempt to combat the dismal December chill.

This particular room was designed for meetings between children and prospective parents, so that they might have a chance to get acquainted, and administration and prospective parents, so that the staff could decide if the parents were a good match for an intellectually gifted orphan. Between the waning desire to adopt older children, and the rigid process parents had to undergo to acquire a Wammy's child, the room was seldom seen by anyone other than housekeeping. Wammy had thought it a sufficient place for L to meet with Detective Carrigan to discuss what he had seen the night of his parents' murder. It seemed Wammy's fears that the meeting would not go well had been confirmed.

L perched on a sofa, with the only toy he'd wanted to bring with him: an Etch-a-Sketch. It was an odd contraption, donated with dozens of other modern toys by a clueless benefactor who'd no idea that the children of Wammy's House were dissuaded from playing with toys without an educational value. Wammy himself could find no beneficial qualities to an Etch-a-Sketch: it resembled the face of an old-fashioned TV but the two knobs along the bottom allowed for the drawing of lines, either vertical or horizontal, on its dusty screen. Its design left no room for artistic accuracy and anything inscribed could be erased by brandishing it vigorously. But as the donator also often wrote cheques inscribed with lofty figures that were not erasable, Wammy had allowed the Etch-a-Sketch and others like it – animatronic talking bears, baby dolls supposedly grown in a cabbage patch, and board games with insipid titles such as _Guess Who? – _to float about the playroom for the younger children. He was surprised L had any sort of interest in it.

When Wammy entered, the boy had the Etch-a-Sketch placed on the coffee table in front of him. He turned knobs with the same rapt attention he had given Wammy's computer game the night before. He saw Wammy in the doorway, picked up the toy without looking at it, and gave it a sound shake. Then he replaced it on the table and twisted the white knobs anew. He returned his gaze to it as if Wammy was not there.

"L," Wammy said sternly, "you upset the detective."

L seemed not to hear.

"What did you say to her?"

L stuck out his tongue at the corner of his mouth in concentration. The knobs of the Etch-a-Sketch gave an odd sound of tension, as if a spring was being wound too tightly.

Wammy sighed in exasperation. "L, please."

He crossed the space between them and seized the toy. L rocked back on his heels and stared up at Wammy with those alarming owl-like eyes. Given L's recent behaviour in the classroom, Wammy had a sudden suspicion L had treated Carrigan with the same kind of derision.

"L." Wammy would say the boy's unusual name as many times as it took to get him to listen. "Answer me or you will find yourself in a peck of trouble."

L's depthless eyes reflected the orange flickers from the fire. His expression remained still and blank.

"I told her that I wasn't done _thinking_." He spoke as if it should be obvious and held out his pale hands for the toy. "Please give it back."

There was an urgency to the request that surprised Wammy. He suppressed a sigh; perhaps even he was going too roughly on L. Maybe the boy did need counseling, if there was so much thinking going on in his head that he couldn't share. Coupled with the nightmares, and tripled with the staggering display of intellect he had shown the night before. Wammy should get the ball rolling on that sooner rather than later.

He reluctantly returned the Etch-A-Sketch, although he hesitated when he saw what had been drawn on it: long rectangles, connected with smaller ones. Crude and with a child's shakiness, but it bore a suspicious resemblance to a blueprint.

"L, what is this? May I ask?" Wammy said, handing the strange implement back.

"Oh," L said. "It's my house. This is the upstairs, see?" He put it flat on the coffee table and pointed. "My room, the study, my parents' room." He also identified smaller squares as doorways and windows, a thin rectangle as the hallway.

Perhaps it should have struck Wammy as odd, but in the moment of L's explanation, all he felt was sadness. The boy was recreating a space that would never exist again, home to a life he would never be able to return to. And in the form of a blueprint, besides. As if he wanted to commit it to something tangible, in case the memory ever failed him.

"Come, L," Wammy said. He held out his hand. "It's time for lunch."

L picked up the toy and grabbed Wammy's hand in his free one. Wammy helped him to his feet and led him out of the room. In the distance, the Winchester Cathedral's bell tolled noon.

That could have been the end to the story. Violent crimes remained unsolved all the time, and it was not the first time a child at Wammy's House was the product of one. The police generated no leads through the Christmas holiday, and inevitably everyone became sidetracked that time of year.

It wasn't until Boxing Day that Wammy even became aware of more peculiar behaviour in the case of L Lawliet. It was a day of rest, not only for the children but everyone involved. The festivities of Christmas Day tired everyone out, and each child would be occupied with a present of his or her choice, delivered to them by a Father Christmas who looked oddly reminiscent of Roger in profile. The atmosphere was, overall, a subdued one.

Wammy was in his office, going over various complaints that had been filed before the holidays. Teachers, noting behavioural problems, often submitted such complaints in writing – although they were sometimes delivered by hand with an incensed verbal story to go along with it, in the case of Mrs. O'Hannihan. Due to the break of classes and various demands of the holiday, they had fallen by the wayside. Most were minor infractions at best, although two complaints in the pile stuck out to Wammy today, while the snow fell steadily outside.

A boy in sixth form had reported his Physics book stolen. Theft was not common at Wammy's House, as the staff strove to provide children with everything they needed and teach the values of honesty and integrity. So this was a concern. But the boy in question, a ginger-haired imp called Thomas Granger, was notoriously forgetful. It was likely that he had simply misplaced the volume, although the boy himself denied it.

Several pages down in the pile, the name L Lawliet emerged again. Wammy held back a sigh; he had been hoping he wouldn't see that name again, although it didn't surprise him. This complaint was not filed by Mrs. O'Hannihan, or Wammy was certain he would have heard about it long before now. Instead, it was by the maths and science teacher, who noted that on the last two days of school before the holidays, L had not made it to her classroom. She had checked with the nurse and L had not been sick; he'd merely vanished for both afternoons and gotten a stern scolding each day at dinner.

Wammy put the report aside and frowned as if he'd eaten something disagreeable. He did not like the evolving pattern of L's behaviour; it had nagged him these past couple of weeks despite attempts to push it aside to deal with the Christmas rush.

He put the whole mess of reports on his desk and stood. He'd been wondering how L had fared with the psychologist that had been set up for him but hadn't had a chance to check those files, either. However, a quick rifling through the appropriate filing cabinet showed that the woman Wammy hired to counselor his children, Jennifer Morse, hadn't yet submitted the report. She too was likely swamped by the holidays.

He sat back down at his desk and gazed thoughtfully at the telephone. Morse wouldn't be back on duty for another few days, but by then Wammy would likely be distracted by a hundred other issues that came with running his orphanages. He consulted his Rolodex, then picked up the phone and dialed her at home.

"L Lawliet?" she asked, with sounds of family gaiety in the background. "Oh God, yes, I remember. He's at the top of my pile, actually. You'll have a fat little page-turner about him after the new year."

"Could you give me a brief summary of your diagnosis?" Wammy asked, tapping a pen against a prepared pad of paper.

"Other than post-traumatic stress disorder, which is a given, he's definitely on the autism spectrum. I want to talk to him some more before I decide where."

That surprised Wammy so much he let his pen drop and leaned back in his seat. That strange, delicate boy. Autistic. He'd been hoping L's eccentricities were simply a side effect of his trauma, but Morse was an impeccable psychologist and Wammy believed her analysis. Still, it was disheartening; being a special needs child would make things all the more difficult for L in the long run.

Morse continued, "There's also something he's hiding. Something big, although I haven't been able to find out what yet. He doesn't trust me by a long shot. Can't say I blame him, after what he's been through."

"Mmmhmm," Wammy said, although by the end of her statement he was no longer listening. He had sensed the same, of course. Ever since he'd seen the Etch-a-Sketch blueprints it had been bothering him. L was a child of many secrets.

By pure chance he looked down at the complaint files strewn hastily on his desk. L's lay side by side with the one calling attention to Thomas Granger's missing Physics book, and the dates were clearly written at the top of each.

L had begun disappearing from his maths and science classes the day after Thomas Granger's Physics book disappeared from his bag.

"Quillsh? You there?"

"Yes, sorry, Jenny. I was momentarily distracted." There was no way there could be a connection. He was leaping to sensational conclusions and again giving a small child too much credit.

"I was just saying I want to give L an IQ test. I think that might be part of why he's having trouble in school. He's much smarter than he looks."

Yes, he was. But Wammy already knew that. He hadn't mentioned L's astonishing puzzle-solving performance to anyone, not even Morse. In his experience, the more people who knew of child prodigies, the more the child was exploited.

"That won't be necessary," he cut in sharply. He did not want L's intellect quantified at all, and certainly not in writing. "I'll handle it."

Morse sounded confused, but dropped the issue. "Well, all right. If you're sure."

"Sorry to bother you on your holiday," Wammy said. The more he learned the less he wanted to continue speaking to her. Shortly thereafter they said their goodbyes and he hung up.

Wammy stared at the dates at the top of the peculiar complaint files. As much as he wanted to blame his hunch on paranoia or an overactive imagination, the truth of the matter was he suffered from neither. If L was as keenly brilliant as his foray into Myst had suggested, Wammy could not put anything past him. The classes he had skipped were the last of the day. Already having caused friction with Mrs. O'Hannihan, he would have had to plan his vanishing act carefully. Otherwise, he would have been found out long before now. All of this struck Wammy as a plan that had been deliberately conceived. Even the book had disappeared from a notoriously unreliable student. If L could analyze complex puzzles on a computer screen, nothing stopped him from applying the same shrewd eye to reality.

But what could L possibly want with a rendering of his destroyed house and a sixth form science textbook?

Wammy stood. He adjusted his glasses, pulled on a jumper vest, and left his office to find out.

It took Wammy longer to find L than he expected. The orphanage was impressive in its size, but he had plotted out all the nooks and crannies to use to his own advantage, rather than a rambunctious child's.

Or so he thought. L could not be found in the playroom, the dining hall, neither the east nor west study, or even his own dormitory. He checked both the front yard and the back garden, where other children of varying ages built snow people and carved angels into the white, wet ground with their bodies. Roger raised an eyebrow when Wammy popped his head out to scan the rosy-cheeked masses for a mess of black hair and a cream-coloured scarf. Wammy nodded to him and offered no explanation. Roger didn't ask.

Then he searched the areas no child in his right mind would want to visit over the winter holidays: the classrooms. But the halls stood silent and there was no glimmer of movement inside any room.

Finally, Wammy checked the library.

The library was often considered the cream of Wammy's House. It spanned two floors and stretched longer than the dining hall. Bookshelves covered every available wall space. Polished oak tables populated the floor, so the children could do their homework or just enjoy solitude and a good book. Twin spiral staircases wound up to a balcony with more shelves and more places to study. A skylight shone down in the middle of the room, and today filtered in the weak light of midwinter.

It was the one place L might be able to hide successfully. Given the holiday, it was deserted. The only sound was Wammy's clicking footfalls on the wood floor.

He didn't dare call out L's name. He had a hunch that if he announced his search the boy might startle and then slink off somewhere unnoticed. If L was being sneaky, Wammy would respond in kind.

Wammy found L on the second floor, under a table. He might not have found the boy at all if not for the furious scratching of crayon against paper. Wammy, who considered himself spry for his age, still groaned as he forced himself down on all fours. There L was, scrunched up with his knees to his chest, in the middle of what looked like a serious academic endeavour. His materials included that blasted Etch-a-Sketch, a pack of crayons and a drawing pad – the only gifts he'd requested for Christmas – and a sixth form Physics book that undoubtedly belonged to Thomas Granger.

L looked up when Wammy's face appeared in the space between the chairs. His small hand froze; he was in the middle of drawing something on the pad in purple crayon. He must have known he was in trouble because the whites of his eyes grew so large they threatened to drop right out of his face and onto the floor. The rest of his face, as always, remained unnervingly blank.

"L Lawliet," Wammy said, stern but not unkind, "you have a bit of explaining to do."

L tilted his head and glanced down at his pad of paper. He paused thoughtfully, like a criminal weighing his options in an interrogation room. The unfortunate child; his life for the past few weeks had been nothing but adults demanding information from him.

"I'll show you," L said finally, in a tone much too solemn for a prepubescent voice, "if you promise not to laugh."

Nothing about this situation had struck Wammy as funny. Bizarre and worrying were the words he'd use. But of course this was an eight-year-old boy he was dealing with. There could be no worse fate at that age than being mocked.

"You have my word," Wammy said. "Now why don't you come out here? We're all alone."

L reluctantly left his makeshift cave and climbed into a chair. Wammy sat beside him and helped spread out the strange cache the boy had collected. The wrought-iron grille of the nearby window cut decorative patterns of shadow onto L's work and made it all the more surreal. The boy pointed and explained.

"See, the Etch-a-Sketch is my house. It's a blueprint. Here, here, and here are where the bombs were placed, I think. On the windows. Based on the tra– trajectory."

He stumbled over the large word but didn't move on until he'd pronounced it correctly. He pointed then to the pad, upon which he'd copied several physics formulas. His math, Wammy noted, was flawless.

"If I can determine the velocity of the explosion, I might be able to narrow it down to what chemicals had been used to build it, but…" He frowned at the paper. "I can't make it… connect."

L brought a thumb to his mouth and chewed at the nail worriedly. "Dad never taught me that part," he admitted in a whisper.

Wammy nodded. He understood now; the boy thought he could glean the right formula from a Physics book. So that he could solve the puzzle.

"And this is what you've been thinking about all this time?" Wammy asked.

L craned up his neck, still gnawing on his thumb. He nodded.

A thrill shimmied down Wammy's spine, a duel feeling of excitement and fear. He had seen nothing like this before, in all the children he'd cycled through Wammy's House. L Lawliet was so far above the rest that it was comical.

He just didn't have the proper tools. That's what scared Wammy. Leave a child like this alone and he did whatever it would take to solve the puzzle. Schoolyard theft was forgivable, but if the boy grew and lacked guidance, he could be in danger. And _become_ a danger.

Wammy had once stood in a room of scientists and watched the first atomic bomb explode. He had a similar cold feeling in his gut now as he had then, when he wanted to turn to them and demand, _What have you done_? Wammy had become an inventor to save the world, not obliterate it, but he had stood idly by while colleagues created the deadliest weapons known to mankind.

He often wondered what sort of childhood Oppenheimer had had.

And now, with L Lawliet watching him with that grave little-boy expression, Wammy had a choice. He could confiscate the drawing pad, shake the Etch-a-Sketch until the blueprint vanished, and punish the boy for stealing. He could beat this child down one more time, like Detective Carrigan and Mrs. O'Hannihan had done, and hope this time it stuck. He could turn a blind eye the way he had from that beautifully horrific mushroom cloud on a scorching hot desert day in 1945.

Wammy leaned forward and pointed to the drawing pad. "I know why you can't connect it, L. It's because you're trying to solve the problem with the wrong formulas."

L stopped biting his thumb. His expression barely changed, but his lower lip protruded just a bit more than usual. He was pouting. "I found the best ones I could."

"Yes, you did. But you see, the equations you'll need won't be in a Physics book this basic. You need something far more advanced."

L rocked back on his heels. He gripped his hands on his ankles and watched his toes. He wriggled them as they hung just slightly off the edge of his chair.

"How do I get one of those?" he asked.

"I have them," Wammy answered, without hesitation. "I'm an inventor. I likely have everything you need in my private collection."

That made L's head snap up. "Could I really—?"

"On a few conditions," Wammy said. "Are you willing to hear what they are?"

L nodded, saucer eyes unblinking.

"First, I want you to be completely honest with me from here on out. Let me ask a few questions. Why do you want to do this?"

L said, "I want to find who murdered my parents."

"You do know that's what the police do. Why don't you trust they'll do their jobs?"

L took a deep breath. "Detective Carrigan is mean. She won't believe me."

"Believe you about what?"

"I-I…" The grip on his ankles tightened and he began to shake. "S-some was wrong that night. I don't know what it was. But I got up when Mum and Dad were asleep and went to look outside. And then … the house just…"

"It's all right," Wammy said, cutting him off before he felt he had to speak further.

It _was_ a strange thing to report. What could have the boy possibly noticed, even subconsciously, that caused him to go outside on a winter's night? It also shot the popular theory out of the sky, that L had been seen and spared by the attacker. Somehow that made everything more chilling: L had been a target as well.

"So you didn't see anyone inside the house that night?" Wammy asked, just to confirm.

L shook his head. "We came home from a party and went to bed."

Wammy sat back in his seat, mulling all this over. He knew right away that he should report this to Carrigan, but L wasn't wrong in saying that the woman had been combative. She was a tough skate, hardened to skepticism from many years on the force. If Wammy told her any of this, he couldn't be sure she wouldn't dismiss it entirely as a child's fantasy.

"Also," L said, interrupting his thoughts, "I'm… I'm scared it's going to happen again."

"Don't worry, L," Wammy said, "no one will be able to touch you here, I assure you." Wammy's House had tighter security than most of its staff realised.

The boy shook his head. "That's not what I mean. I mean… I'm scared it'll happen to someone else."

Wammy frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"I don't know." L shrugged his bony shoulders. "A feeling."

Now Wammy was afraid they were going too far into the imaginative realm of a frightened child, so he steered the conversation elsewhere. "Let me tell you what. You return this book to…" He took the time to flip the Physics book to the front so he could read the name on it. "Thomas Granger and apologise for taking it, and I will see if I can help you solve the problem. That way, we'll have a clue to go on, and Detective Carrigan will be forced to listen to you."

L considered. "When?"

"Whenever you want to. Just come to my office. _After_ you've returned the book," Wammy intoned, tapping lightly on its cover.

L was silent for a moment, then nodded.

The next day, L appeared in the doorway to Wammy's office shortly before noon.

"Thomas Granger called me a wanker," he said calmly. "I'm not sure what that is."

"Never mind," Wammy said, standing up from his desk. "Come, L, there's much to show you."

Wammy closed and locked the door, then walked to the interior corner of his office. He moved a coat rack and opened a small compartment in the wood paneling. A click of a button caused a lock to disengage, and Wammy swung open part of the wall – really a secret doorway.

L stared. He spoke in a hushed whisper. "Just like the Batcave."

Wammy chuckled. "Not quite. Hurry, please, we mustn't dawdle."

L broke into a run. Wammy caught him by the stairs and made sure he used the banister so that he wouldn't fall. Then, they descended into Wammy's inner sanctum, the section of Wammy's House no one had ever seen but himself.


End file.
